Resolutions
by monarch27
Summary: Leroux-y modern A/U. Erik sits alone on NYE, working and regretting. But these days, it seems even his moping doesn't go interrupted. A tiny bit angsty with the promise of fluff.


A/N: This is sort of a continuation of the little holiday story I wrote last year, "A True Gift," but I think it can be read on its own. After reading Quiet2885's lovely "Friends," I was inspired to lean into my desire to just write some fluffy modern snippets and scenes.

Anyway, this is a bit early for NYE, but I hope you enjoy! I'll have Ch 2 up soon enough.

* * *

How he detested the widespread celebration of the New Year. Before Christine—ah, had there been a time before Christine? At moments, he could hardly remember! But, yes, before Christine, he could lose himself so easily in his work and miss this parade of holidays almost entirely. After all, the champagne and the glitter and the jubilation of fresh starts were utterly foreign to his world.

But then Christine had entered his life—or, if he were honest, he had schemed his way into hers—a now he heard excited talk of each next holiday's arrival. Even after her stunning Christmas gift—now tucked safely in a drawer, where it could never fray or crumble apart—he knew that warmth and cheer could only be fleeting tortures for a creature such as him.

Yes, she had been kind that afternoon, and during their two lessons since. Even touching his shoulder as he played for her! But now, as the minutes crept closer to midnight, he could only picture her in the arms of that boy. While he sat at his piano, alone, wearing his mask because tonight he could not bear even the slightest chance of seeing his own warped reflection. After so many hours, the mask hurt, but he nearly savored each little sting. At least it was a feeling. At least something was holding him in.

At the stroke of midnight, the boy would kiss her. What a romantic tradition. A promise to step into the future together.

Every glance at the clock shot a new stake into Erik's heart.

If only he really were a vampire. Then at least a stake could finally kill him.

He chuckled inwardly, sipping from his glass of rye. What on earth was he talking about? What would Christine think if she ever saw the nonsense looping through his head?

He looked at the clock again. Only 10:30. He drank. He composed. The work was not good.

10:35.

He ripped a page of inept scribblings apart in his hands. _One has to prepare the confetti, doesn't one!_ This time he laughed aloud.

10:37.

Then, he heard tires, the rumbling of a car's engine. Someone outside his house. Drunken revelers looking to crash an exclusive party? Burglars hoping to find a wealthy man's house empty and vulnerable? He tensed and moved along the wall to the door. He felt his arms coiling, his muscles instinctively preparing to defend himself from assault. The mood he was in, he almost wanted them to intrude. He's promised Christine he would avoid violence, but couldn't he enjoy giving some idiots an unforgettable scare? Wasn't he permitted at least that?

It was so, so exhausting to be good.

Across the room, on the table next to the piano, his cell phone rang. He cursed. It was Christine. Hers was the only number he didn't have permanently set on "Do Not Disturb."

He remained frozen for a few breaths. He heard nothing more outside. Had the phone distracted him from someone's stealthy approach?

The ringtone began again. He leapt across the room and snatched up his phone.

"Christine?" he whispered.

"Are you home?" came her lovely, intoxicating voice.

"Where else would I be?" he answered. He heard a car door slam. "My dear, this isn't the best time."

"Well, sometimes you're out stalking around, or causing trouble for some mediocre musicians, or, I don't know, maybe moping out in the woods." She hummed. "Moping about mediocre musicians!"

Ah, he realized. Her _intoxicated_ voice.

"Christine, are you in trouble somewhere?"

"I don't know," she mumbled. "But I am on your porch."

"What?"

"It's freezing. Open up."

Trying to bury the certainty that this was some kind of trap, Erik unbolted and opened his front door.

"Christine!" He managed. There she was! On his porch!

"Well, am I in trouble?" She huddled her way through entry, nearly as tall as his shoulders in her staggering pointed shoes. She was clasping a massive brown wool coat around her small frame. A man's coat. But surely the boy was not this large?

"Why didn't you just knock!"

"You get jumpy," she said. "And my hands are cold. It's so cold. Don't you ever turn on the heat for yourself? I know you're cold, but aren't you _cold_?"

He shut the door with a bit more forced than intended. With his back still turned toward her, brought one palm to his forehead. Yes, the mask was still in place. Lucky for her! For the second time in the space of one week, she had showed up at his home unannounced! Though, he supposed the interruption was only fair, considering the many regrettable occasions upon which he had commandeered her schedule.

How he hated remembering the way he'd pleaded with her, demanding that she stay in his house to immerse in practice— _for the sake of her voice!_ A pathetic and transparent ploy, surely. Impossible to make her forget how he'd begged for her love. He let the memories wash over him, soaking him in shame. His penance. He deserved her judgment and rejections, in all their manifestations, in every shiver and absence and recoil.

 _So why was she here?_ He'd been _trying to be good,_ straining against the compulsion to lock her in her room and throw away the key. But the charming, frustrating, silly girl _kept showing up!_

And he was a poor dog at her feet, begging for a pat on the head after a trick.

He took a breath and turned, unsure if he was about to burst with concern, desperation, or anger. But, _she was already crying!_ What had he done?

He took a tentative step toward her. "Christine, Christine. Why on earth are you crying?"

"You're mad at me! Everyone's mad at me!" Mascara coursed down her cheeks. He suddenly noticed a smudge of red lipstick on her chin and the faint remains of a spill on her skirt. Her hair curled loose and wild down her shoulders.

"My dear, how much have you had to drink?"

"You're going to be angry. Because the answer is a lot. A lot of champagne. Plus a lot of…I don't know. Because they kept making me do shots! Because my friends want to have fun and they don't care about my dumb voice." Christine swayed. "My feet hurt. Because everyone cares about these dumb shoes. Everyone was wearing such dumb, dumb, stupid shoes!" She kicked both stilettos from her feet, revealing a hole in the bottom of her nylons. Then she started sobbing.

Erik paced a tight line in front of her, his hands rigid at his sides. He tried to understand what she was saying. Were her tears not completely his fault? But then… "How did you get here? You didn't drive?"

"I'm not an idiot," she hiccupped. "I called a car."

"You should have called me! It's dangerous for you to be alone in this state. To be with a stranger! I would have found a way to retrieve you."

"But I got here and I'm fine! Stop scolding me. I didn't come here to be scolded."

She stumbled backward, and Erik moved forward in alarm. He hadn't been around a drunk person in a very long time. He'd forgotten all the toddling. He hoped she wouldn't be sick. He could replace his rug. After all, he'd only furnished his home with these human niceties for her comfort. He only feared the potential damage to her perfect throat.

Taking her elbow—well, _almost_ taking her elbow—he led her to his couch. He did not sit, but stayed close, watching her. He couldn't have her passing out and hitting her pretty head on the coffee table! He noticed short strands of white fur clinging to the mysterious brown coat. A dog?

He collected himself. As gently as he could manage, he said, "Christine, whose coat is this?"

"I don't know," she sniffled.

"You don't know."

"It was right by the door. At the party. I'll bring it back. It smells like one million dogs. You're lucky that you can't tell." She let her head loll back onto the sofa and looked up at him, a bizarre smile on her lips. "Can't tell and can't smell." She hiccupped. "I won a word game. Everyone was surprised, those jerks. You care about my dumb voice, but you're surprised too. Even you! And actually, I don't even know if you can smell. It wouldn't matter because most of the world stinks anyway. But you make such a big deal about _everything_ but I still don't know _anything_!"

He stared down at her in horror. He had never heard her speak in this deranged manner before, so murky and blunt at the same time. Had she already banged her skull somewhere? There was somehow lipstick on her temple, but no blood or bruising to be found. Why did she insist on bringing up each of his peculiarities! Had she dropped by just to remind him why he wasn't out and about, clinking glasses like everyone else? Maybe it would be better if she went ahead and passed out. Then they could both forget this bizarre interaction had ever happened.

"Why are you here?" He asked, his voice now barely controlled.

"So many questions, questions, questions. Everyone has questions. No one just lets me be!" She folded her arms across her chest, looking more and more like a little girl playing dress-up. Fresh tears slide over her nose. "I broke up with Raoul."

"What?"

She bit her half-red lip, nodding. "It's over. It's been over. We fought and I left."

Erik's head spun. One shock after another. He tried to contain a flicker of triumph.

"But now everyone's mad at me. I yelled a lot." Christine clutched her forehead. "But I don't even remember what I was yelling about."

The triumph died. Of course. A drunken spat between lovers. She would cry her eyes out here, then return to make up with the boy in the morning. He'd forgotten that she could be so _young._

Ah, well. At least she had come to him in her despair. That was something, wasn't it? Something…

"I'm sad," Christine blurted, interrupting his thoughts. "And tired. No, sleepy. Sleepy and sad."

And sloppy. But he wouldn't add it aloud. Maybe in the morning, when she had her wits about her. If he had enough nerve to attempt a friendly teasing.

He knew that he wouldn't.

"I think you should go to bed, Christine."

"I don't want to," she pouted, slumping further into his couch.

"You won't want to sleep here, my dear. Your bed is much more comfortable."

"I don't want to sleep. I want to talk to you. No one ever listens to me when I'm not singing. No one ever listens to what I have to say."

So belligerent! Did she know how she was pushing him? Was she needling him and needling him on purpose, testing to see whether he could control his temper? She was lucky that he had been putting in so much practice. _For her sake!_ He would endure her petulance. Wary, Erik offered his arm, like a hook. Like a life raft, he corrected. He needed to will this thoughts to be more nurturing, at least until she was safely unconscious in bed.

To his surprise, she grabbed on.

"You're a bully," Christine complained as she jerked herself to standing. "You're just as bad as Raoul, always bossing me around."

Oh, it stung. Grinding his teeth, he concentrated on the feel of her arm through his. She was far, far too drunk to know how many boundaries her words were crossing, and she _needed_ him. She needed his care. Yes, focus on that.

Even with makeup melting from her pores, she was undeniably beautiful. He wondered if he should try to convince her to wash her face. No, that was probably a lost cause. He would change her pillowcases in the morning.

He led her to the edge of her bed. She plopped down, her limbs loose and heavy.

"I'll bring you some water," he said.

"I hate water."

He filled a glass in her private bathroom and placed it in her palm. He made her wrap her fingers around it. "You'll be grateful in the morning."

"Always telling me how I feel," she whined. But she drank down the water in three large gulps. "I hate water."

"Good girl." This time, if he were honest, he meant to condescend.

"I'm not a little girl," she snapped. "And you're never right about how I feel." She swung her legs over the mattress and dropped her head onto her pillow. He allowed himself a bit of satisfaction. He didn't really want to wound her, but he was not a good man, and there was only so much he could take!

She would be humiliated in the morning, he feared. He supposed that hideous coat would keep her warm enough. And, of course, now that she was here, he would turn on the heater.

He refilled the glass and set it on her nightstand. Her eyes were already closed tight. Somehow, even flushed and smeared, she seemed to glow.

He walked to her door and flicked off the light.

"Erik," she called through the darkness, suddenly pleading and soft. "Don't be mad at me."

He felt the annoyance building within him deflate. His was not the only manipulative, hypnotic voice! He longed to hear her sing his name forever. He would do anything she asked. "Of course not, my dear. Now, sleep."

He stepped into the hallways and shut her door. His home returned to silence.

Silly, darling, maddening Christine! His heart ached. But he deserved every barb she had to throw. He deserved these endless barriers between them. He pressed his mask against his cheeks, leaning into the pain, deepening the blossoming sores. It wasn't her fault. How could he stay angry when even her ramblings made him love her more?

He looked at the clock. 11:06. How ridiculous. How wonderful. Against all probability, she would almost start her new year with him.


End file.
